


In Unity

by navree



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, This Turned Out Angstier Than Expected, and it's not necessarily kind to fp, which is fair because neither am i
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23463217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navree/pseuds/navree
Summary: There's blood, definitely, mud and blades of glass too, like someone decided to beat up FP in a lovely meadow. Fred's not going to say anything. He's not. The jacket says it all.FP comes to him, bloodied and barely able to stand on his feet.
Relationships: Fred Andrews/FP Jones II
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	In Unity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jugheadjones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/gifts).



> "amélie you can't put gladys in every single parentdale fic you ever write" yes i absolutely fuckin can watch me she's the only reason the serpents have rights  
> as always, comments (either positive or constructive) are always welcome and much appreciated!

Fred won't say that he overreacted when FP told him that he was joining the Serpents. Fred's not like some of the other people in town, he doesn't look down on the Southside or even the Serpents, no matter what they're like. But he's not some moony eyed fool, he knows what the Serpents are, he knows that they're dangerous, and he knows that whatever stroke FP had that led him to want to actually join is going to have material consequences. Fred knows that he doesn't want to be part of that fallout. 

FP wants to be a Serpent, fine. But he'll do it on his own. 

And yet, it's Fred who's lying awake, tossing and turning, listening to the rain pattering on his rooftop, half hoping and half dreading that every movement of shadow he sees in his window is FP, clambering up the side of his house to make amends. It's branches, though, nothing more. 

It's why it takes him some time to answer the door. Because he thinks it's that one twiggy thing that his dad had always meant to cut down but had never gotten around to, banging on his window in the wind. But it's not, Fred realizes after a while, there's an incessant banging coming from downstairs, from his door. 

He still has his baseball bat from high school, even though it's been two years since he's ever gone up to the pitch, and Fred grabs it, almost like he's wielding a sword, creeping downstairs on the balls of his feet. His mom is still sound asleep; she's always been a heavy sleeper. If someone's trying to break into their house for whatever reason, hopefully he'll be able to give them a hard enough whack that they'll go down in one go, and he doesn't need to wake anyone else up or phone the cops. 

Fred hopes he's got the element of surprise when he yanks open the door, baseball bat held aloft. Which is apparently a bad idea, because whoever's been demanding he answer the door was leaning against it, and almost falls into his foyer. 

"I've been knocking for three minutes." It's the Serpent jacket that clues him in, almost more than the voice. Because the voice sounds faintly garbled. 

"FP?" Fred almost still wants to whack him with the baseball bat, just for showing up here and making him think he was living a horror movie. But instead, it drops with a clatter when FP raises his head. Even in the dark and with his hair matted to his forehead, he looks like he got jumped. "Jesus Christ." 

"Don't I wish," FP mumbles dryly, and winces when he tries for a semblance of a charming smile. For a moment, all Fred can do is stare. They haven't actually had a proper conversation since they argued, since Fred left the trailer and slammed the door as hard as he could while telling FP that joining a biker gang was a dumbass move. And now he's here, and he's cracking wise on his doorstep. 

It's the slam of a car door that breaks him out of his reverie, and of all people Gladys is here, making her way up the porch steps with a metal box in her hands and wet hair in front of her eyes. 

"He asked me to drive him here," she says by way of an explanation, shrugging one skinny shoulder. Fred feels like he's half dreaming when he steps aside and lets FP stumble into his house. 

Not that FP hasn't ever been to his house before, but it feels different. Things are different now. For one, FP's never been to his house with a snake skin over his shoulders, an actual physical reminder that there's a real divide between them now, something uncrossable, unconquerable if Fred sticks to his morals and convictions. FP's also never come to his house with Gladys. If Fred looks back, he doesn't think he and Gladys ever hung out at his house at all. And now she's here, and FP's getting water on his couch as he leans back and makes a low moaning sound in the back of his throat. 

It's that sound that snaps Fred into action, more than anything, and he closes the door and forgets the baseball bat and goes to FP's side like it's natural, like it's where he's meant to be. No one's turned on the lights but already, Fred can see the bruises forming on FP's face. It's enough to make him forget all the anger from the past couple of weeks, those bruises on FP's face. 

"I'm gonna go get some frozen peas for your eye," he says, trying to keep himself matter of fact. Icing helps with bruises, he knows that much from baseball season. Gladys is already dabbing wipes on some of FP's cuts, probably alcoholic given the way FP cringes. He looks more grateful for the makeshift ice pack Fred hands to him, pressing it against his eye with a soft sigh. 

"Thanks." 

"What the Hell happened to you?" Fred asks bluntly. FP doesn't answer, just glances away, and when Fred turns to Gladys all she does is shake her head, and he can't tell whether it's with resignation or some kind of disgust. To Fred's admittedly untrained eye, she seems to be dealing with the worst of the cuts on his face, making sure nothing's bleeding too heavily or that nothing is broken. He hopes not, he and FP are both only 19 and Gladys barely turned 18, none of them are the best people to take someone else to the ER if need be. The most extreme seems to be a gnarly cut above his eyebrow, which she cleans and bandages up. 

"Here." Gladys holds her hand out to FP, but there's nothing in it for a moment. He stares at it for a moment, confused, before something akin to recognition flickers in his eyes, and shakes her hand solemnly. "I didn't feel like being left out." FP holds on to her hand for a moment, and in that same moment Fred feels profoundly out of place, like he's on the outside looking in, in his own home. 

"Thank you," FP says, sincere, and Gladys pulls away to stand up. She doesn't leave, not yet. "What?" 

"Just don't think this is gonna go the way you want it." It's a bizarre thing to say, and Gladys waves goodbye to Fred and is out the door before he can ask her what the Hell that is about. FP doesn't say anything in response, not even some snippy quip, just moves the frozen peas around and sighs. 

"Your shirt's got blood on it," Fred says diplomatically, avoiding commenting on the jacket. "You probably need to get cleaned up." 

"Probably," FP answers, and moves like he's going to shrug the leather off, making a face as he does. 

"Let me," Fred tells him, almost an autopilot, and maybe FP's on autopilot when he lets Fred peel the jacket off and drape it over the arm of the couch, when he lets Fred pull his shirt over his head. He won't stare at FP's bare chest when he stands and goes to toss the shirt in his hamper and goes to get a damp washcloth from the kitchen. Not that there's anything inherently wrong with FP, clad in only his jeans and boots, draped on his couch, but if Fred focuses on it for too long, his higher brain function is going to stop doing what it's supposed to and he'll be a drooling mess. 

Which likely won't be very helpful. 

"Are you gonna dab my forehead, nurse?" FP asks, nodding to the towel in Fred's hand. Fred rolls his eyes. 

"You've got an ice pack and bandages, yeah, but you're still covered in blood and you look like a ghoul," he says matter of factly. "My house, my standards of cleanliness. Move your hand." FP sighs, overdramatic as always, but he does put the ice pack down. 

Fred sits next to him, and tries to be as gentle as he can as he starts wiping FP's face, hating whenever he winces. There's blood, definitely, mud and blades of glass too, like someone decided to beat up FP in a lovely meadow. Fred's not going to say anything. He's not. The jacket says it all. Fred won't say he's not spoiling for a fight about it, but maybe not right now, maybe not tonight. Maybe tonight he can just clean the grime off FP's face and feel the heat of his skin. 

If nothing else, it's an excuse to stare at his face, the angular lines of his nose and cheekbones and the messiness of his hair and the darkness of his eyes. He's got very expressive eyes, for a man who reveals nothing. Maybe for other people, but Fred can notice. When he's happy, when he's sad, when he's angry, when he's bored. 

FP meets his eyes, and Fred feels himself flush. 

"So, why my place?" he asks, clearing his throat. FP shrugs. 

"As much as Senior might have wanted to bond over this shiner," he says, jerking slightly as Fred dabs the corner of his eye, "Wasn't in the mood. Guess I just wanted to go somewhere I felt, I dunno." He ducks away from Fred's hands, stands even though he wobbles a bit. "Safe, or something. I guess." 

They just stare at each other for a moment. Fred's still sitting, he's not used to this much of a height disparity between them. 

FP's hands are cold, from the slowly thawing peas, when he bends down and takes Fred's face in his hands and kisses him. It's got to be murder on his back, given that he's still standing and Fred feels frozen to the couch, and murder on his lips too. Fred can taste some blood. But god fucking damn, it's been a while since they've kissed, and he's missed it, of course he has, he's missed _FP_. It feels good to thread his fingers in his hair and pull him down down down until FP all but crashes to his knees and it's easier to kiss, it's easier to feel his skin under Fred's hands. 

He's so out of it from the crazy trajectory of this whole night, from tossing and turning to FP at his door to this, that he lets FP get his hands on his waist, lets him takes his shirt, almost lets him go for his belt buckle before that ever so elusive higher brain function kicks back in. 

"Hold on." It's almost like tearing skin off cement, to stop kissing FP in the dark, with the rain spattering on the windows, but Fred does it anyway, groping for his shirt in the dark until he's able to put it back on. "Just hold on." 

"Seriously?" FP straightens, doesn't even move to pick up the once frozen peas currently on the floor of Fred's living room. "Is there something wrong?" He looks almost insecure. 

"Nothing's wrong," Fred says quickly. But that's not entirely true. Maybe nothing's wrong but something's not right. It's possible for the two statements to exist simultaneously, especially in his head. "It's just, you're." He waves his hand around aimlessly. "You're hurt and." 

"What?" 

"FP, these issues didn't just go away." Fred doesn't want to verbalize it quite so literally yet, but he's right. He knows that he's right. FP must know it too, the way his shoulders sag and he can see a hint of defeat behind the bruises on his face. "I mean, who did this to you?" 

"It's nothing, Fred," he mumbles, sitting back down on the couch. "It's just something I had to do." 

"Yeah." Fred half wants to take the drying Serpent jacket and fling it into the garbage can, but that's probably destruction of property so he doesn't. He just glares at it balefully. "This is all just something you had to do."

"Are you mad at me?" The honest answer is yes. Yes, Fred is mad. Fred is mad that FP joined the Serpents, and Fred is mad that FP stumbled onto his doorstep thanks to what has to be some Serpent related catastrophe, and Fred is mad at himself for letting FP in. Because he's still mad at FP for all those other things and for plowing ahead and doing things without even asking how he feels about it, but if FP shows up on his doorstep. 

Fred will let him in. That's just the way of it. 

"Nah," he says, lying through his teeth. "Just tired, is all." That's not a lie, nor is it a lie when he looks at FP's bruised face and decides morals be damned, just for a couple minutes, and kisses him again. It tastes cleaner now, but Fred is still gentle with the hands on his face. FP isn't, with his hands clutching at Fred's shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to hurt. They kiss, just kiss, for a long time, with the rain pattering outside, until their lips are chapped and almost sore and Fred suddenly feels so tired he can hardly keep his head up. 

The last memory he has is of leaning his head on his hand, staring at one of the cuts on FP's cheek. He must fall asleep after that, though he feels cool lips on his forehead at some point during the night. The next thing he knows, someone's shaking his shoulder. 

"Freddie." It's a lot brighter in the living room during the mornings than it is in his room, and for a moment that's disorienting. "What're you doing down here?" Fred rubs sleep from his eyes, and starts trying to think of an explanation for why there's a shirtless FP and a Serpent jacket in his room. His mom isn't like Senior, no one's like Senior which is good because he's a dick, but she's not a freestyling hippie either. 

"I just, um." He glances around, and there's no FP. No Serpent jacket. There's not any evidence that he was here at all, or that anything happened, except that Fred is sleeping on the living room couch instead of his bed. "Couldn't sleep," he lands on, running his hands through his hair in the hopes it looks sleepy sloppy and not kissed through messy. Hopefully his mom won't be able to tell the difference. 

"You should have woken me up," she says gently, patting his cheek. "I could have made you some tea." 

"Don't worry about it Mom," he tells her, standing and stretching. His bones creak. "I just got a midnight snack and passed out." She nods, like that's an acceptable answer. Fred hates lying to her. For a moment, he hates FP for making him lie to her. 

"Go upstairs and take a shower." He practically bolts up the stairs, and just stands at the top for a moment, breathing in deep through his nose and out through his mouth. The sun is trying to break through the clouds, with limited success, and everything about last night feels like some kind of odd fever dream. Gladys's cryptic words, the leather, tending to FP's wounds. Fred might think he imagined it all and just sleep walked, except for the faint taste of FP's favorite cinnamon gum on his tongue and the dried blood on a shirt that isn't his in the hamper. 

Maybe FP left it so that they could see each other again when Fred gives it back. Maybe Fred won't give it back at all. 


End file.
